Author's note: This chapter has to come with a warning. It contains two non-graphic scenes of what would be regarded modern day as marital rape. (Again they are not particularly graphic). Marital rape didn't legally exist in the 50s. The purpose of the scenes is to depict both Delphine's personal misery in her marriage and draw attention to the fact that this was considered perfectly fine for a husband to do to his wife. Because, property. I am really sorry. There will be no more scenes of this nature going forward.
Late November 1953
From the outside, it's perfect. Delphine acknowledges, looking around her new home. Easily larger than the home she grew up in, and an older francophone woman who comes to clean three days a week easing at least one of her wifely duties.
She has almost nothing to do. Nothing but let her memories haunt her or spend days reading. But at least Thomas works a lot, works long days with drinks or dinners with colleagues frequently. When he's home, it's always the same. Some nights, he doesn't come home at all. Those nights she can lay peacefully in her bed alone. Let her memories comfort her. Until Thomas comes crashing in in the small hours of the morning, disturbing both her sleep and her needed solitude.
"Tu as tout!" Maman scolds her when she attempts to say anything of consequence. Or even anything about her overwhelming boredom. She wasn't their problem anymore. All her mother would discuss with her was church, her siblings or Thomas. All other subjects, it seems, were forbidden.
It didn't take long to learn that Thomas adores sex. To Delphine, he seems obsessed with it, wanting to be moaning and moving on top of her nearly every night he's home. He's disappointed with her, unhappy with simple, he wants it different ways, wants her to be a willing participant. She cannot say no, though she often wants to. She is his wife. She belongs to Thomas as much as this house does. Both to live in as he wished and fill as he pleased.
Instead of trying to fight or refusing, Delphine acquiesces and lets him have his way. She supposes as he is not the one forced to wash the bedclothes nearly every day, it does not affect him the way it does her. It almost always hurts, at least at first. It doesn't improve over the first few weeks as she was told it would. If anything, it gets worse. His patience vanishes and is replaced by a temper she did not expect.
Thomas scoffs at her one night, immediately afterwards. " T'es frigide. You're so frigid." He's disappointed, clearly. Obviously whatever lovers he took before their marriage were far more skilled and enthusiastic than she will ever be.
"Je m'excuse." She apologizes, unsure of what else she can say. She's his wife, she can be that, but she's unwilling to be everything he wants. Some things he wants, Delphine has realized, are worse than others.
Even so, he got what he wanted. His pleasure, so what did it matter? Surely they could keep this between them. He wouldn't tell anyone that she was frigid, and she wouldn't inform the parish priest that he pulls out more often than not. Trying to delay children, Delphine assumes. Or perhaps he sees them as inconvenient, another barrier to satisfying his libido.
"Again." Thomas looks at her again, reaching out with his hands first.
"I'm tired." Delphine attempts to end their night early, wanting nothing more than to clean up and sleep.
"On va le refaire!" Thomas shakes his head at her, demands she get on top, makes them try again. Twice in one night leaves her wanting to scratch off her skin. He makes her look at him, makes her move. This time, due to their position, he is unable to pull out on time, as is his habit. Instead he shudders under her, hands clutching at her hips as he empties himself in her. Delphine tries not to react at all, not in disgust or grief, forcing a calm expression on her face.
"Tabarnac…" He curses, shoving at her. "Stupid girl."
She lands next to Thomas on the bed, he looks at her for a moment. He doesn't love her, Delphine knows. There's little tenderness or gentleness for her at all. Delphine finds herself wondering why he'd even wanted to marry her at all.
"You were supposed to get off before that happened." Thomas scolds her. How she was supposed to be able to read him that well she'll never know. She often keeps her eyes closed.
"Pourquoi? C'est normale…" Delphine insists. After all, that was what they were supposed to be doing, making children. Children she is fairly certain neither of them actually want. Still, she doesn't want the priest coming by wondering why they still haven't made a baby. She doesn't want to be the object of his scrutiny once again.
"You can answer me in English. Why do you do that? You're as capable as I am. And you have to be at the next dinner party. You will speak English, Delphine. You will be charming." Thomas demands.
"Fine." Delphine answers. He reaches to stroke her for a moment, she cannot stop herself from jerking away. She doesn't want it, and he sighs at her, rolling over to finally sleep.
It doesn't take long to accept that while she loved lovemaking with Cosima, this does nothing for her. The priest had been wrong, as she'd suspected all along, this didn't change a thing. It was only a new prison, one that would confine her until death.
Thomas laughs humourlessly from his place on the bed, facing away from her. "Beautiful but frigid."
Delphine doesn't argue.
When morning comes, she pushes herself up out of bed, gathering the bedding to be washed. Delphine bathes before breakfast, another mistake for which she is scolded when Thomas is downstairs demanding his coffee. Delphine sighs, brewing the coffee, surely this thirty one year old man was capable of making himself his own coffee. She makes him eggs and toast, serves him some crêton on his plate in lieu of the demanded bacon.
"I will be home late." Thomas speaks finally, as he stands up to leave, grabbing his briefcase.
"Bon." Delphine responds, redying herself her own breakfast. That much she can do.
"Do not go to bed until I am home." Thomas instructs, fastening his coat and moving towards the door. After Thomas leaves, there's a few moments of relief but there's laundry and cleaning. Perhaps she'll do their groceries today, at least what little she can do without a car. Delphine must find ways to fill her time. To have something. Something of her own, even if it's only very small.
Of course, the one advantage of being alone so much, is that no one is going to inspect her correspondence. Delphine sits at the small desk, begins to look for a pen. Maybe, maybe there is a small piece of happiness she can still have.
The letter still sits unopened on the table before her. The address is unfamiliar, a borough in Montréal she's never heard of but the name is. Delphine Cormier .
Delphine had signed her maiden name, Cosima muses. For recognition? Or maybe things were different in Québec.
"Cosima, just open your letter." Lillian complains. "I've set up a date for you. You need to leave this house."
"I don't want to." Cosima answers honestly. "Can't I just finish teacher's college first?" Despite everything else, she was training as a teacher. She has her degree. There's only one thing missing. The most important thing.
Lillian slams her hands down on the table. "Cosima Newman, God help me if you do not leave this house!"
"Fine. I'll go out with John from church!" Cosima exclaims in frustration. Her mother would never understand the truth. How could she have spent so much time with her and Delphine and not understand her attachment? How could they still be so blind? She thought it was an advantage, keeping them safe. But now, it threatens to enrage her.
Lillian smiles. "Good. I'll tell his mom, and then you two should see a movie."
"Great." Cosima feigns enthusiasm. As if she could possibly pretend to be the same. As if she could ever be the same again. But if Delphine was gone, if Delphine was married what was the point of any of this. She jumps up from the table and moves to leave.
"Take your letter." Lillian shoves the envelope into her hands. "Or I will throw it away."
She cannot let her mother do that. Or worse, read it. Cosima is unsure if Delphine will tell any sort of truth in this letter. She cannot risk that. She steals away to her room, finally ripping the envelope open with her hands.
The letter falls out into her hands in two pages. Two pages of Delphine's handwriting.
Dear Cosima,
I have struggled to find a way to write this to you, to tell you what has happened. I am sorry it has been too long, I promise I am writing to you as soon as I am able. That I will write to you as often as you want. That I will never stop being sorry for leaving like I did without a word.
I would tell you that I am deeply unhappy, but I suspect you'd still blame me. Or perhaps you wouldn't believe me. My mother came to get me in June, after Raymond wrote her a very honest letter. I haven't had the chance to write to you until now. I'm alone most of the time now, no one is watching me. You need to know the truth, Cosima.
If you haven't learned already, I have been married. I am Madame Rousseau now, I married a man my uncle knows from work. We have settled here in Montréal. My parents are both relieved and extremely pleased. I am not. I will never be pleased by this. But I had no choice. I am so sorry Cosima.
I miss you so much, my darling Cosima. I miss Toronto, I miss your smile and our adventures. You are truly my dearest friend. Ma bien-aimée.
Please write back, dear Cosima. Write back and keep me in your heart.
Yours,
Delphine Cormier Rousseau.
Cosima folds the letter, tucking it into her clothes. How can Delphine write to her like that? How can Delphine write like she's hers? How can she lie like that?
It's unfair, but Cosima thinks suddenly, perhaps there's a way to ensure Delphine feels nearly as much pain as she does. To break Delphine's heart, to make her sob picturing someone else in her place.
December 1953
Delphine waits up, a new strategy. She's caught up in a novel in the living room. Thomas has gone to bed. A place she does not wish to be until her husband has fallen asleep. She is sick of it, sick of his touch, his smell, his body. But the holiday parties and work functions fill hours, she can be what he wants there. She'd rather spend half the night reading. Losing herself in a world where neither her nor Thomas exist.
Delphine stands when Thomas enters the room, half undressed. "Thomas!"
"You didn't come to bed," Thomas tells her simply. He reaches for her across the room, she turns around but it doesn't seem to be the deterrent she hoped.
"Non." Delphine swats his hands away, but they're already reaching up under her skirt. She's not even undressed, but it doesn't seem to matter. Her underwear are removed, leaving her garter belt and stockings in place, her skirt quickly hiked up. Large fingers rubbing between her legs, not for her pleasure, but to coax more wetness from within.
He enters her as soon as he's able to, she hisses in response, but permits him to push her into the wall. After all, she's his wife. Though she knows, or suspects she isn't the only woman he is having. The occasional lipstick stain on his collar suggests that he still has others. Delphine wishes he would pester them instead and leave her alone.
"Stop crying. It doesn't hurt." He insists. She has to think about Cosima, Delphine has realized, to ease his way. It means she usually ends up crying for more than one reason as Thomas ruts into her.
Ignoring her own body, she thinks instead of making love to Cosima. Of Cosima's body, Cosima's arousal, Cosima's little sounds. Cosima's beautiful face.
She doesn't mean for it to happen, hadn't realized that she could climax with her husband. It had delighted him, and surprised him enough that he remained inside of her, reaching his peak. For a few moments, Thomas is pleased, but not for long.
He looks at her face briefly, whatever satisfaction he felt vanishes from his face. "Non…" He mutters afterwards. Shoving her forward into the wall and wandering upstairs leaving Delphine alone and disheveled, her chest heaving.
All she feels is guilt, that was for Cosima. That belonged to her and Cosima, and now she's ruined it. Tainted it. Delphine sinks to the floor, letting herself cry. There is no cure, Delphine bawls. There is no fixing homosexuality. There is no changing her love for Cosima. It sits with her, even here.
She must try to go back, even if Cosima will not have her anymore. Perhaps there was something to do to convince Cosima she still loved only her. That what her body has done doesn't matter, that it meant nothing. Maybe it could still work.
She doesn't know then, that she's just trapped herself further. That deep inside her, her body is betraying her again.